


we talked about making it (i'm sorry that you never made it)

by swimthewholeriogrande



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Nightmares, Self-Defense, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 12:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16367486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimthewholeriogrande/pseuds/swimthewholeriogrande
Summary: Spot Conlon has killed a man, and suddenly Race's whole life smells like blood.





	we talked about making it (i'm sorry that you never made it)

**Author's Note:**

> title from wires by the neighbourhood  
> back on some sprace! love these boys

When Spot did come home - so late that Racetrack was asleep on his bed, sleeping fitfully above the noise of the Brooklyn boys - it was with a hinge-squeak and half-sobbed curse; he came through the window like a thief, and Race was startled awake. 

"Spot?" he murmured, still heavy with drowsiness, but Spot did not answer. He stood stock still, the shape of his shoulders dark against the weak silver shine of the night, his breathing heavy. Race sat up, confused and suddenly, distantly afraid.

"Spottie?" he asked again, sweeter this time, and crossed the room. Spot still wasn't moving and Race couldn't make out his expression in the dark. He didn't want to scare Spot if something had happened by hugging him, so he settled for taking the other boy's hands in his.

But they were so slick - wet and cold and shaking, covered in something slippery and foul, and Race jerked back. His own fingers were saturated now, and the room smelled overwhelmingly of metal and he tried not to gag.

"Are you hurt?" Race barely got the question out before he was diving to light the lamp, his body working faster than his mind for once; when oily yellow light filled the room it was worse, far worse, and the smell got psychosomatically stronger when he could see the source.

Spot was covered in blood, his vest splattered and his hands stained, wet red patches on his knees where he must have knelt in it and a single splash on his collarbone just beginning to dry rusty-brown. His face was empty and vacated. This time Race did gag, a horrible sound in the quiet.

There was no wound he could see; Spot didn't look like he was in pain, just like he had no idea where he was. Race looked down at his own hands and found them scarlet, and vomit jerked up his throat again.

He swallowed, hard, and approached Spot cautiously. "What happened?" he said as steadily as he could. He was achingly aware that all he was doing was asking questions and getting no answers.

Spot was in some sort of daze, but he finally spoke. "There was a fight." he said; his voice had an off-kilter quality. "He pulled a knife on me and we wrestled for it."

And you won, clearly, Race thought half-hysterically. He coughed, and then coughed again, just trying to stave off having to respond. "Is he -"

"Yes." Spot's dark eyes were destroyed. "I did that."

Then, finally, Spot's legs gave out and Racetrack had to catch him before he hit the ground; Spot was shaking so hard his teeth chattered, smearing blood on Race's shirt. "Oh, God," he moaned, letting Race lead him like a docile wild animal, "God, I didn't mean to, Tony, I swear - he was gonna kill me - we were wrestling for the knife and I just -"

Race, selfishly, couldn't hear anymore of it, and hushed Spot. He brought him to the private washroom - little more than a dirty sink - and locked the door firmly behind them; he turned the water on and shoved Spot into the stream up to his streaked forearms.

"Wash it off." he ordered, hearing himself speak from very far away. "Take everything off." He kept one hand heavy on the back of Spot's neck as the water ran a ghastly pink, a comfort that was as much for him as it was for Spot. Revulsion and and fear and pity rolled in his stomach. 

When Spot had gotten the blood off as much as he could, his bitten fingernails still red-rimmed, he stripped, and Race bundled up his clothes in the sink. In just his boxers Spot's bruises and gashes came to life, proving his story of fight - like an old lion battling for territory, Race thought when seeing the ancient look in Spot's eyes. He remembered playing young and violent with Spot on the rooftops, on the docks, games of Soldier and Tiger and Cowboys-and-Indians, and wondered what had gone so wrong in their lives that they were here now. 

But it didn't matter, because here they were. Race guided Spot's head and kissed him, feeling anxiety pour between the two of them like a perfectly balanced scales. "You are alright," he said, and Spot shuddered, but what he really meant was 'please, please be alright.'

-

Race woke up still on the washroom floor, Spot sprawled on top of him breathing unevenly and the washed clothes drying haphazardly about the room. He stretched and then remembered and didn't want to be awake anymore.

Spot's breathing was coming in pants against Race's neck. He shifted and then half-shouted and Race had to clap a hand over his mouth, restraining him to his chest.

"Quiet!" he ordered. "Or your boys will be in here!"

Spot stilled, eyes wild, and Race let go, rubbing Spot's bare back. "It's over," he promised, "it was a dream." But it was a memory, too, he knew that.

"I swear to God..." Spot started, but his voice trailed off. He shut his eyes; they fluttered and his unshaven face went through forty expressions before landing on grief, terrible grief and shame.

"It was him or me, Race. I swear." he said finally; he averted his eyes. "I never wanted it. I just wanted to go home."

Race traced a swirl down Spot's spine. He imagined the flash of the blade, the desperation, the struggle and ensuing strike, and then it was just, "God help me, Spot." Love drove upwards and upwards until he could scarcely see, or maybe that was tears in his eyes. "But I'm glad it wasn't you."

**Author's Note:**

> what did you guys think? may do a follow-up some time, comment if you enjoyed and thanks for reading!


End file.
